It was a miracle he wasn’t hit. It was amazing luck, if not a miracle, that Koesler was not seriously injured, and that the careening auto managed its illegal turn against traffic. With the extraordinary police presence downtown that no officer was at that corner at that moment was the final unlikely event.
The police gathered quickly and tried to turn up witnesses. Of course the majority of motorists and pedestrians had seen nothing clearly. It was not unusual; frequently eyewitnesses became momentarily “blind.”
Rick had no right to that much luck. The secret was that he couldn’t have cared less. He was out for thrills on a grand scale. Damn the torpedoes! Anyone with the slightest hesitation, or concerned about the slightest margin of safety, probably would not have made it through all those obstacles.
He was on a roll. He piled all his chips on blind luck. And, at least for now, he’d won.
“You almost killed two people back there!” Bonnie shrieked.
“Yeah!” Rick regained control of his car and aimed it down the ramp onto the Chrysler Freeway North. He stayed in the fast lane, which wasn’t moving all that fast on this miserable, snowy morning. He dangerously tailgated one car after another until they successively gave way and moved out of his path. With each psychological victory, he became more convinced something, somebody, was making him invulnerable.
“Slow down! You’ll get us killed!” Bonnie protested.
“Didja see that first guy?! He was wearing one of those collars—whadyacallem, religious. I think he was a priest! I didn’t know that when I headed for him. Didja see what happened to him? I didn’t get that. D’ya think I got ‘im? The bump didn’t sound so solid. I don’t think I killed him.”
“Killed him?! Killed a priest?!”
“It’s like somebody up there—it can’t be God, must be the devil—somebody’s telling me it’s okay. Go ahead. Wow, this is really somethin’! I’ve never been pumped up like this! Woweee!”
Bonnie studied him. She was beginning to believe.
When he’d told her what had happened last night, she hadn’t quite known how to react. Her first inclination was to credit him with an over-vivid imagination. She expressed her disbelief.
In response, he tuned the car radio to a newscast. Sure enough, there was the story, at least in skeletal form. Rick had included rich detail that the newscaster didn’t touch. He turned off the radio.
What did that prove? Only that Rick had already heard the news account of the killing, adapted it as his own, and embellished it.
Probably it was as much to convince her as to satisfy his growing hunger for danger and violence that he’d performed those daredevil stunts just now.
But … if he could commit attempted murder with the car, maybe he could have been responsible for the brutal murder of that woman. The dawning truth sent a shiver through her. “You really did it, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Last night. That woman. You and the Golds. You raped and killed her.”
He was giddy. “What gave you the clue?”
“What you just did back there.”
“You didn’t answer me.” He brushed aside her act of faith. “What happened to that priest back there? I couldn’t see.”
She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know. Last I saw, he was on the ground. I was too shocked to pay all that much attention.”
“I don’t think I offed him.” Rick shook his head. “The hit just wasn’t solid enough. I think he was spinning away when I hit him. Pretty good for an old man. Hey, turn on the news. Maybe there’ll be something about it on the radio.”
“Come off it, Rick. It just happened, for chrissake!”
“Okay. See if you can get some metal—”
“No! We gotta talk!”
He reached for the radio button. She grabbed his hand. Fury suffused his face as he glanced at her. Then, unexpectedly, he softened. “Okay, babe. But don’t ever do that again.” He concentrated on the road. Those ahead of him continued to give way as, barreling ten miles over the limit, he hung on their rear bumpers. He would have gone faster, but the other drivers were adjusting their speed to the worsening road conditions.
Bonnie could do little about his breakneck driving. In fact, she admitted to herself that she was enjoying the way her man was having his way on the highway. “What’s got into you, lover? You’re like a different person. And, hey, could you get off the freeway, please. This traffic is driving me nuts!”
He had to agree it was time. No one was on his tail. He had continually checked his rearview mirror for flashing lights. None appeared, though he might have been pursued by police as much for his driving as for the hit-and-run back on Jefferson.
He slid the Jaguar over two lanes merely by flipping on his right turn signal and moving to the right. A cacophony of angry horns protested this dangerously inconsiderate maneuver.
Once back on the surface street, Bonnie repeated, “What happened? How come, all of a sudden, you’re like this?”
He grinned. “I didn’t have any idea it could be like this! We’ve done every drug on the market, haven’t we?”
She frowned. “Well, I haven’t done horse.”
“This is better. Imagine you had an unlimited line of coke or an unlimited supply of crack. Imagine the high you could get just going from one to the other! Imagine!”
She imagined.
“Well,” he continued, “this is better!”
“What?”
“Murder! It’s the ultimate high! There can’t be anything better than this!”
“Rick!”
“I mean it!”
She thought that over. Maybe there was something to this after all. He had never yet led her down a barren path. And he was good about it; he always tried everything himself before presenting it to her. From grass to crack, he had led the way. He even warned her that heroin could be a downer. It had been for him, though he still did it from time to time, mostly as a change of pace. And that was the explanation for her never having tried horse.
Rick was telling the truth, at least subjectively. Throughout his young life almost nothing had been denied him.
His father, a partner in one of Detroit’s most prestigious law firms, led a socially active life. So did his mother. They had “people” to clean, to cook, to fix things, to arrange for parties, to send cards. Although now vacationing in the Virgin Islands, Rick’s father had taken a pile of files along, and kept in regular touch with the office by phone and fax. He would return to Detroit far sooner than his wife.
Thus had the Vanderwehls’ married life proceeded. Along the way, they’d had Rick. That was incontrovertible; he was there for everyone to see.
His father would be hard pressed to explain why they’d had him. An accident, partly. The thing to do, partly.
In any case, it was as painless an event as they could make it. Outside, of course, of the birthing process. Pregnancy had been excruciatingly inconvenient. And that could not hold a candle to actually delivering the squalling little package.
But, that was life. The good with the bad.
The thing to do was to hire someone to raise the child. Which was more of a challenge that they’d anticipated. The brat had a knack for attracting crises. Illnesses, sleeping disorders, childhood diseases, a reluctance to go to bed, get up, go to school, go out, stay in … Froward was his middle name.
Then there were the home repairs needed almost every time he touched a household item.
As one might guess, the parents were forced to hire an almost endless series of nannies, custodians, counselors, jailers. All in an effort to have as little parental contact with this child as possible.
One way of ridding themselves of the lad, his parents soon discovered, was to fulfill his every desire and cave in to his every demand. It was so much faster and unproblematical, wasn’t it?
Rick’s problem lay in trying to come up with new things to want.
Gradually, through his y
ears in school, he’d gathered a tight circle of friends who were assailing the seasons in much the same way as Rick.
Since he was left as alone as he cared to be, Rick’s home became headquarters for the group of five who called themselves the Golds. The name described the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed and which they intended to continue.
Rick was by no means stupid. He might have amounted to something substantial. But with his background, that would have been a moral miracle to challenge such conversions as that of Paul, Augustine, and Francis—either Assisi or Xavier. For Rick, such a metanoia was not in the cards.
He and the Golds and their camp followers stumbled down so many avenues of novelty that their search for fresh depravities was drying up.
Then came last night.
What a thrill!
Better than any drug Rick had ever tried. Instantly—he was not stupid—his plans for the immediate future were crystal clear, fitting snugly into his quest for higher and higher highs.
Along with his plans for homicidal thrills came an unreasoned feeling that some sort of inexorable destiny was guiding him. It was as if nothing, no power, could reach him, stop him.
And each new episode only reinforced the conviction that he had become invulnerable.
Largely, this morning had been a test.
He had left himself open for instinct and inspiration to take control. Who could have done what he did and expect to get away with it?
But he had. He had just let a force greater than himself take over. And he had come out of it totally unscathed.
As he grew in confidence—and, at this moment his confidence was absolute—he wanted to pass on, to communicate this self-assurance to the Golds. And to Bonnie. Nobody was closer to him than Bonnie. She had followed his every lead. She had gone through the drug culture never once doubting him.
Now he wanted “his people” to scale the heights with him. And they would if only they would place their trust, unreservedly, in him. It was as if, as far as authority was concerned, he was invincible. His people would share in all this with him. All he needed was their blind obedience.
He pulled into a supermarket parking lot, found an empty space near the street, parked, and turned off the engine. He turned to Bonnie. “Look, have I ever let you down or steered you wrong?”
“Umm … no. And I was just thinking that.”
“Well, I told you what went down last night. That means I trust you. I trust you with my life. ’Cause that’s what would happen if you told anyone. I could be stepping into life in the slammer.”
Sincerity beamed from her face. “I know that, Rick. I would never tell. You’ve got to know that.”
“I do. And you won’t have any doubt when I tell you what comes next.”
“What comes next! How ’bout a hit-and-run in downtown Detroit, then breaking every traffic law on the books?”
Rick waved that away. “That was nothing. Just a test drive. You saw how it worked. Nothing can happen to you while you’re with me. I know ’cause nothing can happen to me … understand?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“We are going to …” Rick paused. The enormity of what he intended to do engendered awe even in him.
Bonnie was deeply impressed. This must be really big if Rick couldn’t bring himself to just come out with it.
“We are going to …” He tried again. “Well, let me put it this way: What very important person is about to come to Detroit?”
Bonnie turned her head and looked out the windshield without seeing anything. Slowly her eyes widened as she gradually looked back at Rick.
“Not …” She halted.
“Say it!”
“The … the pope!”
“You got it.”
“The pope! Honey, you gotta be out of your mind!” No sooner were the words out than she regretted them. He grabbed her wrist roughly and squeezed so hard she gasped. “Don’t ever—ever —say that again.”
Tears of pain and confusion ran down her cheeks.
“You got me?” he said roughly. “Never, never …”
“Okay! All right! Rick, you’re hurting me,” she wailed.
He released her hand. “Do you understand?” he said quietly but firmly.
“Yes. Yes!”
“Okay. Now: Remember everything I told you. You’re safe with me.” He looked deep into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I do or what the odds are: Nothing can happen to you as long as you’re with me.”
“Yes, honey. Oh, yes!”
“All right. Now, I’ve got everything planned for the greatest high any of us have ever had. It’s foolproof. So what I want to know: Are you with me?”
She hesitated. It seemed so insane, so pointless.
But how could she call herself his friend, his lover, if she wouldn’t trust him completely, unquestioningly? He had proved he was truly extraordinary. She had to trust. She had to believe. “I’m with you, darlin’.”
He relaxed. The last brick was in place. “Okay. Okay. But you’re going to have to warm up for the big one.”
“‘Warm up’?” Doubt crept back.
He started the car, slipped it in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot. Suddenly, for Bonnie, the moment of truth seemed to have arrived.
Agreeing to join Rick and the boys in the assassination of the pope had been like promising to accompany him on a trip to Mars—like killing a pope it was no more than a fantasy … something they would get serious about sometime during the next century—or, perhaps, the one after that.
“Warming up” for that put everything in the present tense. It was scary.
Rick reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a packet. He felt under his seat and came up with another, which he handed to her. “Take the mask out.”
It was a standard ski mask, the sort that people wear when skiing or otherwise out in bitter cold. Or when needing a disguise.
It was going to happen. Something was going to happen. “What are you going to do?” Her voice quavered.
“What are we going to do?”
She stared at him blankly.
“We are going to rob a store. Maybe one of those little convenience stores.”
“But why? We don’t need money.”
“You need the experience. The Golds are a couple of violent crimes ahead of you.”
It was useless to argue. She knew she was going to do what he wanted. At this point, all she could wish was for this episode to be over, with no one seriously hurt.
Bonnie had never heard of Patricia Hearst, kidnapped and brainwashed by a terrorist gang. At one point during her captivity, she was filmed participating in a bank robbery. The argument over whether she had collaborated willingly continues to this day.
But now Bonnie knew that she would go along with Rick even if it wasn’t of her own volition.
“That looks good,” Rick said as they drove by a small store on Detroit’s northeast side. It appeared to be open for business, but no cars were parked in front or on the side lot.
As they finished circling the block for the second time, Rick said, “Get your mask ready.”
Adrenaline racing, Bonnie obeyed. Rick was right: This was a very definite high. But not of the desirable sort.
As they pulled their ski masks over their heads, Rick leaned past Bonnie. He took a gun from the glove compartment.
“Rick! You’re not going to use that!”
“What are we gonna do, honey—go in there with our hands open and say, ‘Trick or treat’?”
“But you’re not going to use it!”
“Not unless I have to. Now, we can’t sit here with our masks on forever. Let’s go!”
They quickly moved from the car to the store. Rick’s gun was in his hand and visible.
As they entered the store they were greeted by a whoosh of heated air and the mingled aroma of fruits, vegetables, and meat so characteristic of small markets.
Behind the counter
stood an elderly clerk, presumably the owner. There was one customer, a young black man. Their eyes widened and their mouths dropped when they saw the masked duo, one brandishing a gun.
Bonnie froze just inside the door.
Rick advanced, waving the gun at the customer. “Down! Get down! On the floor! Face down! Now! Now!”
The man dropped to the floor as if struck, his groceries rolling around his prone body.
Rick turned his attention to the clerk. “The money! Put it in a paper bag! Now! Don’t try anything! Don’t even think about it!”
The man carefully took a paper bag from the counter. Under no circumstances did he want to give the impression he was doing anything but cooperating. He began taking money from the register and stuffing it in the bag.
“Faster! Faster!” Rick shouted.
“Let’s go! Come on! Somebody might be coming,” Bonnie pleaded.
Rick shot a jittery glance at her. As he returned his attention to the clerk, the man was holding the bag toward Rick. However, his other hand was inside the register. Unhesitatingly, Rick fired. A small hole appeared in the man’s forehead. He stood very still for a moment, then crumpled to the floor, the bag still in his hand.
Without bothering about the bag, Rick shouted at the terrified customer, “Count to fifty, sucker. Don’t get up till you hit fifty. And count real slow!”
Rick had to push Bonnie out the door. She was glued to the spot just inside the door from which she had not budged since entering.
They jumped into the Jaguar and gunned away, kicking up slush and broken bits of asphalt in their wake.
Inside the store all was deathly quiet. The customer, still on the floor, heard the car race away. But he was taking no chances. One of the robbers might’ve stayed behind. As unlikely as that was, the young man was counting his blessings—principal of which was that he had escaped with his life. He wasn’t about to meddle with that.
The door opened and somebody entered the store.
The prone customer intensified his fervent prayer that they had not returned to finish him off.
“What’s happenin’?”
Call No Man Father Page 13
